Twelfth Night
by johnsarmylady
Summary: Chasing Sherlock around is making John ill - so what else is new? Although maybe next time he'll stick to reading trashy detective novels...so much better for everyone's peace of mind! A strange birthday gift for the lovely Jily Forevermore. Happy birthday! Rated K


**Welcome to this little birthday fic written for the lovely Jily Forevermore - happy birthday my dear! I hope you enjoy it :)  
****Disclaimer: I own none of the characters, that honour goes to the BBC, Mofftiss and ACD. With special thanks to William Shakespeare for the plot leaders and title. **

It started as a cold; just a horrible, runny nosed, sore throated cold; and John knew that all he needed to do to make himself feel better was to stay at home, wrapped up against the January snow in his armchair in front of the fire.

He knew that. He told Sherlock that too. Why was it then, he mused, he found himself standing in near blizzard conditions, listening to his genius flatmate explaining why the man they had just caught was the killer, and not the bruiser that was currently locked up in Paddington Green nick?

A hand on his arm made him jump, and he looked up to see Greg Lestrade looking sympathetically at him.

"You better get after him John, or you'll need to get your own cab home." He tipped his head towards the rapidly departing figure.

John nodded his thanks and hurried to catch up, arriving at the roadside just as the lanky cab magnet snagged a vehicle.

In silence – if you ignored the blond doctor's snuffling and sneezing – they travelled back to Baker Street; Sherlock wondering how long it would be before his next case, John wondering if he would ever warm up again.

xXx

By Monday morning it was obvious that there was no way this was still 'just a cold'. Dragging himself from his bed he changed out of his sweat-soaked pyjamas, and grabbing his duvet dragged it down to the living room, where after making himself a cup of tea he wrapped himself up in his chair in front of the fire.

Sherlock was sunk in contemplation, deep in his mind palace, and for once John wasn't bothered whether or not the younger man ate or slept, he was too full of his own woes.

Unwilling to subject his eyes and ears to the seriously crap daytime television that usually followed the glitz and pizzazz of Christmas, John stretched out a hand and pulled a book from the book case. If it bothered him that the nearest book was a collection of Shakespeare comedies he didn't show it – he flicked through it until he came across a likely looking story, settled further into his duvet and started to read.

xXx

The sound of the book thudding to the floor drew Sherlock from his musings, and he glanced over at his flatmate.

John was sleeping; a faint sheen of sweat beading his forehead, and a soft wheezing sound accompanied each intake and exhalation of breath.

In one smooth movement Sherlock was on his feet and moving towards the sleeping man, intent on picking the book up and sending the doctor back to his room and his bed, but a voice from the doorway stopped him.

"Oh, look at him, he didn't look so good when you came home last night," Mrs Hudson bustled into the room. "I'm not surprised he's ill."

"It's just a cold."

"No it's not Sherlock, just listen to his breathing! And he's soaked in sweat! If it's not flu then I'm your housekeeper, not your landlady!"

Sherlock was about to point out that she had that the wrong way around when he realised what she was saying – and he looked down again at John.

"Should we get him back to bed?" he asked, unsure.

"No dear, pull the couch a little closer to the fire, and we'll settle him on there while I go and air and change his bed." Fussing around, the old lady plumped cushions and straightened covers, before letting the younger man lift the doctor from his armchair…

_The storm threw him across the deck of the ship, sliding into the decorative rails, the waves crashing onto the deck and rushing through the scuppers, trying to drag him with them. Every bone in his body ached with the effort of staying on board, and his shivered in his saturated clothes._

_The rolling motion made him feel ill and he groaned, feeling the solidity of the deck giving way underneath him, putting him onto freefall, rushing headlong into the raging sea._

"Here, make yourself useful." Pushing a bowl of cool water into Sherlock's hands, Mrs Hudson headed off upstairs. "Try to make him more comfortable by keeping a cool cloth on his forehead, try to bring his temperature down a bit."

Sherlock stared after the diminutive lady for a full minute before sitting on the edge of the coffee table and placing the folded cloth on John's face. His first attempt was a bit of a disaster as he had forgotten to wring it out, and John started to panic as the water cascaded over his face.

_He was drowning. He needed to get to the shore they had been making for before the storm struck, but the water was in his eyes, and getting into his mouth, and he flailed, trying to swim…._

Hastily Sherlock rung out the cloth and holding John's flailing arms down and out of the way, he tried again.

_Coughing and wheezing, he thanked the fates that at least his face was out of the water now, allowing him to catch his breath. As he lay shivering, it was obvious that he was no longer being tossed about, either on board the ship or in the sea – he must have made it to the shore._

_For a while he lay there, just breathing, wondering if he would ever have the strength to move again, yet when he heard a voice close by he was unafraid, as if he knew the owner of this voice was a friend, that he would keep him safe, protect him._

_Sinking onto the lumpy sand of the beach, he let go of his consciousness, until his last conscious thought – 'What happened to my sister?' – slipped away with the rest….._

xXx

"Go away Mycroft." Sherlock didn't even look up from the soup that Mrs Hudson had left him stirring on the hob.

"Ah, I see you are under orders brother mine – about time you realised John's a human being and not an automaton." Mycroft peered over his brother's shoulder.

"I said, go away."

Pouring the warm liquid from the saucepan into a large mug, and carried it through to the living room where John was propped up, still wrapped in his duvet, blearily trying to keep his eyes open.

"Here you are John," Sherlock solicitously made sure his friend had a secure hold on the mug before stepping back.

He shook his head at John's confused look.

"Mrs Hudson said I was to make sure you get that down you."

"Feel like shit." Dull blue eyes looked up and over the younger man's shoulder. "Why are you here?"

"Good afternoon to you too John, I just thought I'd call in to see how you are."

"Well now you've seen him, go away." Folding himself into his chair Sherlock glared at his older brother.

Mycroft smiled – John suddenly looked startled, then frowned.

"You remind me of someone." He croaked, finishing the last of the soup and lowering his cup to the floor. "Can't think…"

"Don't bother John, he's leaving."

"Well, good to see you John, hope you get better soon."

But John was already falling asleep.

And as the door closed behind his brother, Sherlock was already pondering John's earlier fevered mutterings – why should he have thought anything had happened to his sister?

xXx

_A gentle hand rested on his head as he laid on the chaise, listening to the gentle, mournful music, watching the silhouette of the other man back-lit by the window. He knew that tune; it was her tune, the one that the other had written when pining for that woman. _

_It was however a beautiful piece of music, and that he listened to it over and over was really no hardship. The man loved music, and it stood to reason that he wouldn't listen to anything but the best._

"_It's good to see you taking such good care of him." The woman's voice, from somewhere behind him, was talking to the silhouetted figure. "I always knew you were more than just friends."_

"_I'm not gay!" he heard himself protest as the music abruptly stopped._

_The hand, soft and definitely feminine, stroked his hair away from his forehead and shushed him, telling him to relax._

"_Of course not dear," she soothed, "Whatever you say, we're very tolerant around here."_

_Frustration bubbled up inside, and he wanted to say more but the sounds of an argument distracted him…_

"Even if I had a case for you Sherlock, which I don't, I think you owe it to that poor sod to look after him while he's laid low with the flu."

"Oh come on Lestrade, sentiment? You expect me to feel guilty?"

"No, I expect you to understand that Mrs Hudson is too old to be looking after people – I mean, would it kill you to make an effort?"

"If you had been here ten minutes ago you'd have heard him protesting that he's not gay – even when he's ill he feels he has to spout that out. Do you think he would really prefer me to look after him?"

Greg stood and stared, open mouthed.

"Really? He said that?" He could barely contain a chuckle.

"Well Mrs Hudson was wittering on about more than just friends."

The octogenarian blushed, and fussed over the sleeping man, not making eye contact with either of the detectives.

"Still, he wouldn't be in this mess if you'd left him at home."

There was a rustle of paper and the sound of something heavy being put on the table.

"Anyway, I thought I'd bring this over for him, might make him feel better."

"Whisky?" Sherlock sneered. "This is John we're talking about, not Harry."

"Harry?" John's voice floated up from the couch, but his eyes remained shut.

Sherlock frowned. This was the second time today that John had mentioned his sister – normally he avoided talking about her at all. Pulling his 'phone from his pocket he sent off a rapid text, and then turned back to Lestrade.

"No case? Fine! Come back when you have something for me." And he hustled the surprised older man out of the flat.

xXx

Raised voices on the stairs alerted Sherlock that his texted request had been fulfilled, and if it had been uncomfortable for his brother, so much the better. He opened the door of the flat and looked down into Harriet Watson's angry blue eyes.

"You might want to keep your voice down Harry, you're brother's sleeping."

"And who are you to tell me what to do? If John's asleep why does he need me here?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"I tried to make Miss Watson understand that her brother had been asking for her, that he was unwell and we thought she should come."

"And you," she stopped in the middle of the living room and turned, pointing an accusing finger at the elder Holmes brother, "you're mad! You threw my drink away and threatened me with arrest if I didn't go with you!"

"Frankly I don't care how he got you here – you're here and that as far as I am concerned is that." He pointed to the man now sleeping quite peacefully on the couch. "His temperature seems to have dropped and he's certainly less restless than he had been."

"So you didn't need this madman to…"

"Harry? You survived!" John struggled to sit up, a combination of weariness and the remaining flu symptoms making that simple action difficult. "Where have you been? I was worried."

"What? I've been at home – would still be there if this lunatic hadn't dragged me here. And if you're being funny about that last drinking binge of mine, then yes I survived, no thanks to you putting me in rehab!"

"I'm not a lunatic." Mycroft interrupted, fed up with Harriet's insults.

"No Harry, he's not really mad, he's…." John paused, a memory suddenly giving him a nudge. He sneezed, sniffed, and then grinned. "No, he's not mad – he's Malvolio!"


End file.
